Plagued
by russianwinter013
Summary: The darkness poisoning his mind was always there, no matter his external appearance. He was haunted by gruesome memories, things that could and would not leave no matter how hard he tried. His new team is great, no doubt about it, and treat him perfectly fine. But would they feel the same if they knew his horrible past?
1. Chapter 1

Hi, there! So this my first story posted here on this amazing website. Later on, it will be based on Autobot Chromia's story _Ratchet's Sick Days, _so there's your fair warning.

**Title: Plagued**

**Rating: T for safety**

**Warnings: violence, death, gore. Dark first chapter.**

**Summary: **_The darkness poisoning his mind was always there, no matter his external appearance. He was haunted by gruesome memories, things that would and could not leave no matter how hard he tried. His new team is the best there is, no doubt about it, and treat him perfectly fine. But would they feel the same if they knew his horrible past-one that was catching up much too fast? An old condition resurfaces, putting him in even more danger. Will they ever be safe from the horror that is their **New Recruit**?_

Author Notes: Updating rates will be irregular. I apologize in advance for any inconveniences and/or rages this may cause.

Anyways...enjoy! :D

* * *

The sky was screaming.

It was filled with the horrible sound, a sound that grated his audio receptors. It was horrible, and it drove him insane, making him wish he could tear out the pain-inducing parts and throw them to the ground to crush beneath his bloody pedes.

The ground was soaked with the sickening blue life-blood of the dead and the dying. Their screams were blazed into his mind, an infection with no hope of a cure. The sight of the bombs landing on them was still fresh in his mind-the shocked shouting, the inane point of the finger, the bone-rattling impact, the screaming as the first house was decimated to nothing but rubble and the only survivor crawled out with melted armor and protoform and Energon-gushing wounds. The way the ground had lurched and cracked as if it were a monster coming from an eternal slumber to unleash its wrath upon the world, the way it had groaned and sighed and screamed with the same, if not more, intensity of those who fell dead upon it-it was a gruesome, rancorous event.

He stumbled through the streets. The metal was cracked like some ancient's dry lips, lips that were continually refused a quenching liquid. Only here, the liquid was not water-it was the blood of the dead.

The smell of smoke burned his insides. Ash inflamed his respiratory systems, scorching and charring the sensitive parts. His harsh coughing and rasping intakes only incensed the wounds. The agonizing pain tore through his systems, a fire trapped within as its excruciating tongues of flame licked and burned his insides. There was a crack in his left optic that impaired his vision, a mere mockery of a relief, as the horrific scene turned from a horrifyingly clear image frightening enough to make him want to rip out his optics to a cracked, near imperceptible abstract image that barely lessened the detrimental horror that clothed him in its deadly embrace.

His intakes rattled through his chassis. Black darted in and out of his vision. No, he couldn't give up now, he couldn't! There was too much at stake. He had to get free, to find help in any way possible. His injuries were near-fatal, the cracked vision and burned throat, armor, and protoform being the least painful. His internals were badly damaged; he could feel it: a blazing, shrieking fire that coursed through everything. The temptation to lie down and declare that there was nothing else to live for was strong, nearly overpowering.

But that one thing, the one thing that kept him going was hope.

There was hope for tomorrow.

As cruel of a mockery it seemed, if he died, his strong city would never live on. It would be a mere shadow in the great wake of the world. He had to live. He had to keep moving on. It would be what his family wanted.

Tears stung his optics, but he was too weak to wipe them away.

His family.

His carrier, warm and kind, gentle and caring for anyone who needed it-a provider of comfort and love for anyone lacking it.

His father, strong and tall, brave and with a nearly overpowering presence-he was someone who would give protection and sacrifice himself for the weak at any costs.

His older brother, who always had his olfactory buried in a datapad and was considered emotionless with the cold, impassive way he approached everything.

His little brother.

The tears were streaming now, burning a trail down his scarred cheeks. Acid fire tore through his broken optic.

His little brother, always talkative, always excited, always _loud_. Oh, how he was so loud, so curious, so intent on getting into everything that sparked curiosity.

His intakes were heaving, his steps shaky and unsteady. He couldn't make it, he wouldn't. It was too far, too far...

With one last, broken vent, his entire world collapsed into darkness.

* * *

Something rammed into the side of my helm, jarring me from my horrific daydream. I groaned as the processor ache I had worsened.

"Wake up, Praxian." The hit happened again, and the owner of the action received a static-laced moan. My thoughts were hazy. Where was I? Why was it so dark? Why couldn't I see? Why did I feel like I was floating? Who was-?

"I said, _wake up_!"

Electricity surged through my frame. I gave a strangled scream and my optics on-lined, my doorwings jerking violently and connecting with a hard object. It took me a moment to realize that someone was holding me and I struggled to get free.

I instantly regretted the action.

My body erupted in pain, overheating almost immediately. My vents were strangled and short, rattling through my frame. It was dark and I could only see out of one optic. Something warm and wet dripped down my back and arms, aggravating the wounds there.

"Ah told ya it would hurt 'im! Look at 'im, barely able to see in a straight line!" A heavily accented voice sounded near me, too close. I jerked away, panic settling into my mind and body. Who was it? Why did it hurt so much to move?

"Easy, kid." A faint outline of someone was heading towards me. "We're not going to hurt you." A gentle, warm servo was suddenly on mine.

"_Who_...?" My vocalizer refused to work properly, emitting burst of static instead of words. Primus, I sounded like a sparkling.

"No, don't talk. You've been badly injured." The voice belonged to a mech, it seemed, and he was leading me to a surprisingly comfortable berth.

"_Where am I_?" The question came out barely distinguishable through the static.

"On a med-ship," the mech answered. "Now relax. It'll all be over soon."

Warmth washed over me, and I fell into a dreamless stasis.


	2. Chapter 2

When I came to again, I was still on a berth, though one that was rather uncomfortable. My helm was still pounding and my vision was still cracked, though not as worse as before.

"Good, you're awake," a voice, one I recognized as the gentle mech who had calmed me, said. A tall mech made his way towards me. His paint was dark red and he had black highlights. His optics were a strange yellow-green. I'd never seen anyone with yellow optics.

"Took ya long enough. Ah was startin' ta go inta stasis lock jus' by watchin' ya." Another mech, slightly shorter than the first, appeared from the shadows. He was black with bright blue accents, and his optics were orange. Seriously, what is with these optic colors?

"Enough," the red mech ordered, his voice hard. The other mech merely rolled his optics, glaring at me.

"Don't mind him; he's always that way." The red mech's optics softened in concern. "How do you feel?"

I tried to speak, but an aching pain tore through my throat. I winced.

Realization hit the mech's face. "Your throat was damaged badly. A lot of the lining was charred, but your voice box received the majority of the damage. My medics and I were able to repair most of it, and your internal healing protocols will kick in and fix the rest eventually. It'll hurt a while to speak, so try to refrain from it." His optics hardened, as if daring me to try and speak too much.

At my look of disbelief and uneasiness at his sudden anger, his optics softened slightly. "Just give me a nod: once for okay, two for in complete agony."

He said this so cheerfully and calmly—was he sane? But then I realized he wanted an answer to his question, judging by the somewhat impatient look on his faceplate, so I nodded once, the movement not really doing wonders for my aching helm.

"So, now we know ta kid's fine. What're we gonna do with 'im now?" the black mech demanded. "Ah'm pretty sure Blackfire and Slater's got a nice spot fer 'im."

The medic snarled and faced the other. It was then that I noticed his very large, very powerful wings, as well as the Predacon symbol. He was a Predacon?

The black mech noticed my shocked stare and grinned. His dentia flashed, the light glinting off of the metal and exposing his sharp fangs. "He sure is, kid. A lot of us here are."

I frowned slightly and he noticed. "Tha' doesn't bother ya now, does it, sweetspark?"

I glared at him for the use of the nickname, but shook my head as an answer.

"Good," he purred. "Doc here has a temper worse than Unicron's." He motioned to the dark red mech, who rolled his optics and faced me.

"We mean you no harm. If you wish to leave, we will not stop you, though I highly advise against it for your injuries. Your legs are still healing, as well as other injuries."

I looked down. My legs were in supportive braces, and hundreds of welding scars crisscrossed over them.

"How…" My throat burned, and my chest constricted, my vents hitching. Harsh coughing shook my injured frame; making daggers of pain attack my body.

"Easy." The red mech steadied me as I sat up abruptly, trying to cycle air through my rapidly overheating frame as the coughing worsened and pain tore through my body.

"Get the medical grade," the medic ordered the black one, who growled in annoyance but did as told when he was given a fiery glare.

"Try to keep your vents even," the doctor instructed me. "Irregular ones will only cause more irritation to your healing wounds. The medical grade Energon Savage is retrieving has nutrients that should heal any further irritation your attack will cause."

I could barely understand his words. The world was blurring, and the heat radiating through and around my body only increased my sudden vertigo. He continued to support me, his immense size and strength the only thing keeping me from toppling over. Savage soon returned, and then the irritated mech was supporting me and the red mech was pouring the med-grade down my throat. The attack ceased soon enough, leaving me exhausted and even weaker than before.

"You can rest," the Predacon medic told me. "When you're strong enough, we'll give you a tour, and you can meet the rest of us."

As I drifted back into a welcomed stasis, I wondered:

_Did I really want to meet the _rest_ of them?_


	3. Chapter 3

**Okay, Chapter 3! Finally! I apologize for the long wait! I'm really sorry! :(**

**Many thanks goes to Dream'sRealm for giving me the Predacon leader's name! :)**

* * *

He sat with his back against the wall, optics shuttered. His thoughts were fixed on the young mech they had found. How did he survive? Had anyone else had those wounds, they would have died immediately, or at least have had a prolonged, painful death. But this little mech had somehow moved throughout the entire city, if his debris and Energon caked pedes were anything to go by, and ended up a mile or two outside. Clearly _something_ had urged him to get up. How easy it would have been to just lie down and die…

What possessed that little mech to get up and fight? What useless thing could have—?

Of course.

Love.

How does one survive on just love? Such an imbecilic emotion. It brought nothing but hurt, anger, and pain. It could leave one on the brink of insanity.

So how did this little mech see it as something that could _save his life?_

"Steelfang?"

He looked up. Blackfire stood there, her lithe frame enveloped in cold light. Her purple optics, normally filled with animalistic rage and agony, were softened in concern and held the smallest hint of sadness. She hated seeing him like this.

"Yes?"

"You've been in here for quite some time. Would you like to…take a flight?"

Steelfang vented. "Blackfire, now is not the time." He scowled, realizing how harsh he sounded.

She winced and backed away before he could finish his sentence. "You're busy. I'm sorry for bothering you." Her wings tucked in, betraying the calm of her voice.

Steelfang shuttered his optics. He knew he had much work to do, mainly on the little mech, and that any distractions, no matter how inviting, were not welcome. He was devoted to his occupation. He knew what it was like to be in unbearable pain and suffering and didn't want anyone to go through something like it. The memories…the wounding of his pride, the shame, the anger, the pain, the agony.

"Steelfang."

He looked up. Without realizing it, he had turned his back to his visitor, curling in on himself with his side leaning against the wall. Had he been aware of his actions, he would have deemed it weak and degrading.

He felt a warm servo press against his own. Blackfire was kneeling next to him, her clawed servos holding his gently.

"Steelfang. Look at me," she insisted. "You are doing it again."

The enormous mech vented, his wings dipping down. "It has been plaguing me for some time. The memories are coming back."

"I know." Warm servos caressed his massive claws. "Our little newcomer is doing that to a lot of us. You are affected the most, being the oldest. But we need you, Steelfang. You are our leader."

"I am not equipped to be." A growl rumbled deep in his chassis.

Blackfire pulled back slightly, snarling quietly. "Stop blaming yourself. I…we are all sick of you doing this. You need to focus. We all need you." She hesitated, dropping her gaze. "I need you. And so does the young mech in our care. Now is not the time for you to dwell on your past."

She stood, and her wings flared, making her very tall, lean frame even bigger. "I suggest you stop acting like a newborn about things that do not matter anymore and focus on your task at hand. If you let this youngling die," Blackfire hissed, leaning down to glare intensely at him with blazing purple fire, "I will _**not**_ hesitate to terminate you." With that, she swiveled on her heel and left.

Steelfang stared after her, first in disbelief and then in amusement. Blackfire sure knew how to cheer someone up.

* * *

When he entered his medical bay, the young mech was deep in recharge. His wings twitched occasionally, and he murmured words, only some intelligible. Nearby, Savage stood at the spark rate monitor attached to their patient, his attention completely fixed on the screen.

"Steelfang, Ah can't be expected ta be waitin' on yer charge all o' the time. Where were ya?" Savage faced him, his fiery optics blazing.

"Forgive my absence, Savage. I was speaking with Blackfire."

Savage scoffed. "Sure. Ya were speakin' with her." His slight grin vanished, his face slipping into the professional, faintly irritated mask he kept it in most of the time. "He hasn't improved or degraded, jus' stayin' in the same spot. 'E should wake up in a few joors."

As if responding, the little mech moaned, turning over on his side. His spark rate sped, signaling his waking.

"Or now." Savage blinked, his attention on the monitor. "Could be now." They watched as the mech stirred, his optics flickering back online.

"How are you feeling?" Steelfang questioned.

The mech glanced at him, irritation clear in his once bright blue optics, before cringing and groaning again.

"Ya want a pain chip?" Savage reached into his hidden arm compartment, pulling out the said object.

Their patient, with a grimace and a glare, shook his helm. His servos folded and he attempted to force himself into an upright position. He scowled as the weak limbs shuddered and buckled, shaking his helm angrily as Steelfang made to help, and eventually forced himself up. His dim optics flicked over to the head Predacon, and he stared expectantly.

Steelfang began to answer, when his senses flared, picking up the scent of fear and anger. Someone was in trouble. He looked to Savage, whose own wings were propped high and wide; the vehement scowl on his faceplate exposed his sharpened dentia. He sensed it as well.

"Young one, you are in no condition for travel. Your legs—"

The mech shook his helm again, scowling ferociously as he pointed to the wall, where crutches were propped against it. Steelfang knew what he was asking. But the risks…if he were pushed too hard, his wounds might reopen, he might bleed to death, he could harm himself even further…

"Young one, I am sorry, but we cannot allow you to do so. We do not want to inflict more damage unto your healing chassis." At the mech's static-laced vent of refusal, the head Predacon snarled, flaring his wings wide to make his already colossal frame bigger; he did not feel the least bit of regret or guilt when the slightest hint of fear and fury filled the little one's optics. "This is not up for discussion. The visit will wait."

With that, he turned and left. Savage glanced at the irritated young mech before following his leader.

"Did ya smell it too?"

Steelfang growled, the noise rumbling deep in his chassis. "Yes. Gather everyone in the meeting room." He moved faster, his movements dark and concealed. He was making his way to the training room; his rage was slowly building, a dark storm that swirled beneath the insubstantial shield of a controlled mask that could break at any given moment.

"Steelfang."

He looked back at the other mech. The hall was well lit, but his optics burned with a dark inferno straight from the pits.

"You know what this means."

His optics narrowed, and he nodded.

A sudden echoing and trembling crash echoed throughout the base. Savage snarled, dentia that had already begun to lengthen bared. He caught Steelfang's gaze, and the same terrifying fury boiled within each of them, threatening to overwhelm.

"He's here."

* * *

**To clarify: Smokescreen isn't that young, probably a few vorns younger than he is in Transformers: Prime. And he is quite tall for his age. The Predacons consider him as little and young because of their ages and immense sizes.**

**Hope you liked it! Can you guess who 'he' is?**


End file.
